Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: eli@NetUSA.Net (Eli The Bearded) Subject: [rae archive] Bridal {mf m-solo hist} Keywords: mf m-solo hist Archive-name: bridal From: Caroline@ardgrain.wintermute.co.uk (Caroline Ashbee) Subject: Bridal Keywords: mf m-solo hist X-Moderator-Review: 10: exquisitely crafted and researched. Not for the squeamish, though. X-Ava-Review: 10: another fine historical piece from Ashbee Bridal by Caroline Ashbee Now, finally, he is untying the tapes of her ankle socks, first the one, then the other. They are both very excited. He is excited because he will be seeing what hitherto he ought not to have seen. She is apprehensive about letting be seen what hitherto has had to have been hidden. Impetuosity and self-discipline contest within him as he slowly draws the socks off revealing her perfect golden lotus feet. On the bridal bed it is her duty to submit, so she lies back, and aware that she should not feel it, in spite of herself, she feels exposed, indecent, and ashamed; but she is also very excited. She remembers the foot-binder coming when she was small, her mother stroking her brow and clucking meaninglessly to comfort her in the atrocious pain as her four smaller toes were folded and flattened under each sole, as the arch of each foot was carefully broken, then folded from front to back, and bound tightly, shortening her feet until even now her shoes are just four inches long. The years of fading pain, the slow recovery, the shooting agony endured while learning, a second time, to walk, the only possible way for a lady to walk, the graceful, mincing totter, that makes the men excited and amorous. She thinks of the old physician who explained to her the medical and alchemical aspects of childbearing when she was contracted to be married. He told her that beautiful children were conceived as the results of pleasing couplings, and that the creation of lotus feet was not just for beauty, but that it caused the lining of the vagina to wrinkle into folds, enhancing pleasure and therefore producing beautiful children. She thinks of her cousin, condemned now to crippled spinsterhood, who, through over-zealous vanity, had bound her feet so tightly that the left one completely mortified and had to be amputated. She thinks of all the accidents and misfortunes and illnesses that might have befallen her and prevented her from fulfilling her destiny, from marrying, from finding herself on the bridal bed. She is surprised that she feels no sense of triumph now. She thinks now, that before, if she had thought about it, she would have expected to have had some sense of satisfaction: all the physical preparations and her education had been devoted to the perfection of a wife, and on her bridal bed she is beginning to consummate that long-desired, long-awaited destiny. He is gazing at the golden lotuses, his face close to the feet, savouring the cheesy ammoniacal smell. His fingers probe the folds, and the tickling and the wicked impropriety of it all makes her giggle. Then he does something that she had never imagined anybody doing or wanting to do. He sits up holding the foot in both hands, and then he pushes his thumbs into the cleft where the arch was broken so long ago, and he begins to prise it apart. The foot creaks, and the cleft opens a little; at first the feeling is not unpleasant: it is almost nostalgic, the feeling of use being made of a member left long unused and atrophied; but the healing process has reset the bones and the cleft opens only a little despite his wrenching, and it hurts. She sighs. He reaches across her and rolls her on her side. The slightly opened foot is lying on the quilt. She watches, expectantly, as he smears himself with the perfumed ointment. She knows what will happen next: the pillow-book they have already looked at shows what happens next; but it doesn't. He begins to thrust himself not where she expected him to but into the newly opened cleft. At first it tickled when he touched the foot, and she had to will herself to relax to resist it and lie still without giggling -- she still feels the tickling: she just relaxes through the response -- and then enlightened, illuminated, shining, she understands the ecstasy of making love, and why it is that women's feet are bound. Eventually she feels something warm, the stream of pearl, gush into her foot. He rolls away, crawls up the bed, and whispers endearments, and caresses her for a while. Then he crawls down to her feet again. This time, raising her foot to his lips he slips the great toe into his mouth and sucks, a child at nurse, tasting the salt of her sweat, the tiny foot almost entirely contained within his mouth. Then slowly, carefully, but totally inexorably he arranges her on her back, forcing one leg upwards so that the anterior face of her thigh presses against belly and chest, the foot extending beyond her shoulder, beside his face, as he enters her. The muscles of her thighs strain and stretch. She knows a different kind of pain, the kind that can be drawn within the belly and defeated. He rests upon her belly now, in that simplest of postures, face-to-face, his left hand reaching forward to cup the tiny foot and caress it, gently, slowly, weed in the rippling water. "It will take time to discover what you prefer." he murmurs. "But perhaps that is not the point." she replies. Copyright (c) Caroline Ashbee 1995 _________________________________________________________________ -- Story Submission: Submission criteria: Archive site: (Not active yet)